


the lucky ones

by screamlet



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Adulting, Bisexuality, Bromance to Romance, Friends to Lovers, Multi, Road Trips, Summer Vacation, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 03:38:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7026967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamlet/pseuds/screamlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They made the decision to drive to Myrtle Beach when Holster found the fucking sweetest cottage near the beach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> timeline is spring/summer 2015: starts a week or so before the end of bitty's sophomore year and continues into that summer.  
> *  
> i named this after [that nicholas sparks movie with zac efron](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1327194/) because i HATE MYSELF  
> *  
> thx [aliassmith](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aliassmith) and [lanyon](archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon) for humoring me

They made the decision to drive to Myrtle Beach when Holster found the fucking sweetest cottage near the beach. It was still available for one of the weeks they were looking at: before heading home to visit their families, before Ransom’s summer program in Maine, before Holster’s summer job started up, before their annual Niagara meetup. 

“Bits, you’re from the South,” Ransom said through a mouthful of leftover pie they had to clean out of the fridge before the end of the year. “This look like a good thing?”

“Isn’t that the house from that Nicholas Sparks movie?” Bitty asked.

Holster almost spit out his own mouthful of pie. “ _The Notebook_? What—NO—Ryan Gosling poured his heart and _soul_ into—”

“No, the other one we watched,” Bitty said. “Julianne Hough ran away to the beach and Timothy Olyphant—”

“Timothy O. was never in a Nicholas Sparks movie or I would have—I don’t know—canceled _my entire life_ to enter that dimension and _live in it_ ,” Holster said before it clicked. “FUCK, you’re talking about Josh Duhamel in _Safe Haven_.”

“There are _two_ Timothy Olyphants? You learn something magical and wonderful every day,” Bitty said. 

Ransom had his laptop open next to Holster’s and, after some furious googling, announced: “The house from _The Notebook_ is totally on the other side of South Carolina.” Ransom raised his eyebrows. “Bits: how far are you from Myrtle Beach?”

“Boys, I am not joining you for your orgy in Myrtle Beach. It’s six or seven hours this time of year from Georgia,” Bitty replied. 

“Get your mom on the line. I’ll convince her we would only invite you to the most respectful of Myrtle Beach orgies,” Holster said. 

“Bro, if I’m honest, this looks less spring break and more Hallmark,” Ransom said as he leaned over to Holster’s laptop. “I love it. This is the site of beautiful adult debauchery.”

“I feel like we’re growing,” Holster sniffled. “Look at these dope as hell throw pillows.”

“Dope as _hell_ ,” Ransom agreed. “Book that shit. Put it on my card, pay me when you start up at the club.”

“You sure?” Holster asked. 

“We’ll never find another place with this much natural light,” Ransom said.

“You have a point.”

“You know I do.”

“Myrtle Beach it is,” Holster said.

“MYRTLE BEACH!” Ransom yelled. 

*

**SHITTY:** get me a MYRTLE BEACH IS FOR LOVERS shirt

get me two

one large one small

i need both

croptops are in this year 

I GOTTA MAKE AN IMPRESSION AT MY INTERNSHIP

get three so does jack

**JACK:** Jack does not.

Send me the listing for this place though.

**SHITTY:** YEAH???????????

YEAH??????????????????????????

JACQUES LAURENT ERES TU EN IL MARKET POR UNE LOVE SHACK???????

**JACK:** Stingrays show a lot of promise for a mid-level team.

**SHITTY:** my face just melted off

IS ANYONE ELSE ALIVE IN THIS GROUP TEXT

STOP HAVING LIVES

SAVE ME FROM MINE

*

The drive from Massachusetts down the Eastern Seaboard to Myrtle Beach was 14 hours without breaks and probably a lot, lot fucking longer with the five hundred breaks Holster had scheduled. 

“Buckle up, we’re not stopping until we’re out of Connecticut,” Ransom said.

Ransom glanced over as Holster examined their driving itinerary, which included when they would trade off on driving and all their scheduled breaks. Ransom laughed, though, because Holster was an exacting motherfucker if there ever was one, but he was still Holster. 

“Suit yourself,” Holster said as he put the itinerary away. “Let’s see if you make it.”

“Oh it’s fucking _on_ ,” Ransom said. 

“No one makes it out of Connecticut without stopping, my dude,” Holster said.

Ransom scoffed. “It’s fucking Connecticut, how bad could it—”

**3 HRS, 15 MIN LATER**

“Bro, are you crying?” Holster asked. “It’s okay if you want me to drive for a while. I was going to take over when we got to New York anyway.”

Ransom took a moment. He did not sniffle. There was nothing moist on his cheek to wipe away.

“I’m fine,” Ransom said.

“Okay.”

“I don’t need to stop.”

“Only if you want to.”

“It’ll be nice to stop when we’re in New York.”

“We’re making great time,” Holster said.

“I hate Connecticut,” Ransom said. He still wasn’t crying. “I don’t know why. It’s done nothing to me. It’s been so consistent. And we made great time.”

“You’re doing so well, babe, really, we’re almost to Stamford and Stamford’s practically New York.”

“Really?”

“Well, it’s like 20 minutes from the New York border, but New York City’s still an hour away.”

“Can we stop in New York?” Ransom asked quietly. “It doesn’t have to be the city. Just. Somewhere. Somewhere after we get into the state. Can we stop for a break?”

“Yeah, of course.” 

“I just don’t want Connecticut to win,” Ransom said. 

“No one does, I promise,” Holster said.

Ransom nodded to himself and sped the car up a little. Holster rested his hand on Ransom’s shoulder, then gripped the spot where his shoulder met his neck. 

“Warning you, bro,” Holster said. “Your muscles up here are mad tight and you’re going to get a neck rub when we’re out of the car.”

“When we get to New York,” Ransom said. “Connecticut’s not gonna have the pleasure of my relaxing for even a second.”

Holster laughed and gripped Ransom’s shoulder again. “Oh, hey, take your mind off this hellhole: Shits and Lardo.”

“Oh my god, we haven’t talked about Senior Week, BRO.”

*

**JACK:** Thank you for the cookies. :) 

**LARDO:** did you still not rename your text threads

**JACK:** Or:

A polite reminder that it’s nice to thank your friends for their baking.

Thank you, Bittle.

**BITTY:** no need to thank me :) :) :) 

**SHITTY:** wait if jack has cookies whose cookies did i steal 

i DEFINITELY stole them from jack’s bag

from someone’s bag

**LARDO:** are you so high that you might not even be eating cookies

**SHITTY:** god i wish

**HOLSTER:** rans and i only have one bag of cookies for both of us :( 

et tu shité

**JACK:** Nice one. 

*

They had been there for Shitty and Lardo since The Beginning, but there was still a thrill to retelling the story of their years-long secret-pining love affair, like a soap opera they got to support whenever there was beer and the opportunity to hip check Shitty into Lardo’s general vicinity. Something about Shitty’s uptight rich boy upbringing forbid him from ever speaking the words _also, I think I love you, so what am I so afraid of?_ to Lardo’s actual living human face, no matter how many times Holster sat them down in the Haus living room to watch that one Hugh Grant and Andie MacDowell scene from _Four Weddings and a Funeral_. 

“Okay, not to be that guy, but I think her piece at the art show was totally about him. _Not_ the frisbee one, but the green one, was it—”

“GREEN TERB JURSE.”

“OKAY IT WASN’T JUST ME—”

“THAT’S SHITTY’S PHONETIC SLURRING OF TUB JUICE—” Holster shook his head, but kept his eyes on the road as he drove them through New Jersey. “In front of our eyes the whole time, Rans. The whole fucking time.”

“Not that our best girl friend’s art has to be about one of our best guy friends but like. That one piece. Come on. Come on. I MEAN, COME ON.”

“Nah, man, the way she had the layered the stripes on the canvas, building up to like, that melty eye shape in the top left and it just happens to be the perfect color blend of Shitty’s eyes and a ripe cooler of tub juice—”

“God, right,” Ransom said. “The way the clearly delineated layers just kept blurring more and more and man, I fucking _knew_ Shits was writing to her that year she was abroad—”

“Holy fuck, remember those ink stains on the side of his hand every fucking week? AND SHE PUT THAT ON THE CANVAS. The blurred black words in that one layer _oh my god_ , we’re so fuckin’ Angela Lansbury up in this shit.”

“Can you believe this epic love story was right in front of our stupid fucking eyes?” Ransom sighed. “Now if only we could find Bitty a guy.” 

Holster cleared his throat and sat up in his seat, his eyes never leaving the road in front of them. “Not that everyone in the Haus needs to be like, paired off and shit, but I worry about our boy! It’s not like he can go back to his parents’ place over the summer and fuck someone. Shit, man, do people fucking _talk_ in small towns.”

“I bet he’s playing a long Romeo-and-Julio game with a lax bro,” Ransom said.

“OUR SON, ERICALD PIEBAKER BITTLESWORTH? RECEIPTS, SIR. YOU BESMIRCH OUR SON, OUR HAUS—”

“Chill, I got nothing,” Ransom assured him. “But come on, it’s a secret lax bro romance _or_ he and Jack’s long cozy walks to get coffee have been secretly dates this whole time and Jack’s waiting to tell us until he can make our Bits an honest man.”

“Now that would be amazing,” Holster sighed. “I’d watch that romcom. Wait, it already happened: did you watch that rip of _Ronnie and Julie_ I put in our dropbox? It’s on Hockey Movie Night Playlist Version 7.5.”

“Uhhhhh.”

“The made-for-TV Joshua Jackson movie!!! He plays hockey, she’s a figure skater, their parents are running against each other for like, mayor or something—”

“Oh my god, we have to watch it when we get to the cottage,” Ransom said. “I’m fucking hyperventilating right now.”

“That’s just New Jersey.”

“No that’s _Jack_ and _Bitty_ ,” Ransom said. “What if—”

“Uh, we’re pretty fucking observant,” Holster said. “I think we would have noticed our favorite Canadian robot getting all oily around the joints and glowy around the carburetor whenever he ate some pie made by the hands of his beloved.”

“That’s true,” Ransom said. “And Bitty’s fucking unreadable.”

Holster didn’t say anything for long enough that Ransom glanced over to see if he’d suddenly fallen asleep at the wheel.

Still there. Still awake. Still driving, but staring blankly into space with his mental-math expression. 

“Closet’s a fucked up place, dude, especially in a small town like where Bitty’s from,” Holster finally said. “He’s probably not with anyone. We’d know. We’d see it, if he was—with someone. And happy. Maybe we just won’t look.”

Ransom wanted to crack a joke, but he watched Holster and thought better of it. Holster seemed to sense it when he looked back at him, a small smile unsteady on his face.

“I waited long enough to tell you I was bi, didn’t I?”

“You waited exactly five seconds after you’d made out with your first bro,” Ransom laughed. 

“Yeah, but I waited until Spring C!”

“Like ten minutes into Spring C. You almost dropped Lardo off your shoulders when that guy kissed you. Shit, what was his name? The guy you almost broke Lardo’s head for?”

“If you remember Spring C, you didn’t have a good Spring C,” Holster intoned seriously. “But I do remember apologizing to Lardo. A lot.”

“Literally all you said to her the rest of that year were variations on _please I’m so sorry my sad dick completely took control of my central nervous system_ —remember the PowerPoint I made you to win her back?”

“Science has been so good to me,” Holster said. “You and science, man, always there when I need you.”

Ransom laughed and looked out the window to give Holtzy a minute to adjust his grip on the wheel and let out the deep breath he had been holding. 

*

**BITTY:** has anyone heard from rans and holtzy

boys why didn’t you just fly down there 

**RANSOM:** holtzy’s driving like the champ he is, we’re almost to dc!!!!!

**SHITTY:** tell my great-grandfather’s monument to suck a giant cock 

**RANSOM:** that’s literally the only thing on our dc itinerary 

i’ve never been to your capital before i’ll def make sure to do that

**SHITTY:** love my boys so much 

**JACK:** Wait, what’s happening?

**SHITTY:** i love u too jack 

**JACK:** Not what I was asking.

But thank you.

**SHITTY:** you could kiss the queen with that mouth


	2. Chapter 2

They slept overnight in Raleigh. The next morning, Ransom drove the last three hours from Raleigh to their sweet little cottage near Myrtle Beach. He immediately fell asleep in one of the bedrooms while Holster unpacked the car and did a preliminary exploration of the place. 

Ransom woke up later refreshed but gross-mouthed, clutching a manila envelope of brochures and coupons.

“The fuck,” he muttered. 

He let the envelope fall on the floor, but more paper crinkled _in_ his shirt against his chest.

“Holtzy,” Ransom called out. “Did you shove a brochure to the aquarium down my shirt?”

No answer. Ransom rubbed at his eyes and left the bed, peeking in the other rooms for Holster until he found him sitting on the steps of the front porch with a beer from their cooler. Holster had swapped his sunglasses out for glasses, staring out at the narrow path from their front door that led to grass, gravel, beach, and ocean. Ransom caught it all in one long look from their front door.

“Shit,” Ransom said.

Ransom sat on the steps next to him. Holster popped the cap off another beer and handed it to him. 

“This is way too nice for us,” Holster said. “We should’ve gone with one of those shitty hotel rooms on the boardwalk. Twice as much for half the view, but it—I dunno. This feels too _nice_. We don’t deserve this.”

“This is good,” Ransom said. 

They clinked their bottles together, a toast to each other. 

“So,” Holster said. “Supermarket today—already mapped it and we kinda have to go since the house came with nothing and all the good restaurants don’t deliver. Tomorrow, beach and boardwalk and more beach. Day after, aquarium, maybe explore the other beaches.”

Ransom nodded. 

“There’s a grill, too, so we can make Captain Jack proud and protein overdose to his heart’s content,” Holster said. 

Ransom laughed and elbowed Holster in the side.

“We’re the captains now, remember?”

“Oh, fuck,” Holster laughed. “I forgot.”

“The hell you did.”

“Nah, I didn’t forget. You try thinking of Jack without the C, though. Come on, I dare you.”

“I’m okay not thinking about him at all right now,” Ransom said. “Him or anyone. It’s just us out here.”

“Right, sure is,” Holster said. 

They had a whole moment of quiet before Holster finished the rest of his beer and stood up. 

“You enjoy the scenery while I look for some tote bags or something for the supermarket.”

“Just chill for a sec,” Ransom said. He reached and tugged at the hem of Holster’s shorts, his fingers brushing Holster's leg, but dropped his hand when Holster flinched at his touch. 

“It’s okay, seriously, I’ve been sitting out here doing nothing for the longest ass time, I gotta get up and move,” Holster said. “No rush, bro, I’m just gonna keep doing inventory in here, take your time, I’ll come back out in a sec.”

Holster went back inside and Ransom nodded to no one in particular before he turned his gaze back to the path out to the ocean. 

*

Rans was on his second jalapeño vodka, tabasco, lime juice and celery bitters cocktail when he asked Holster about their itinerary for the evening. 

Their itinerary, but really, the other thing. 

“Dude, you think you’re gonna hook up with anyone tonight?” Ransom asked. 

“Uh.”

“Just ‘cause like,” Ransom said. “I don’t know. It’s not like a Haus thing where we’re right at the edge of campus. Our place is a little too out of the way, you know?”

“Yeah, I didn’t really—I think I misjudged the distance from the boardwalk. No, not that. I mean the distance seemed like a good thing so we’d be the only loud drunk assholes around.”

“Bro, bro! It’s not a bad thing, I’m just saying.” Ransom sat up in his seat and winced when the table and all its plates and glasses clanked around at his sudden movement. “Just like, I’m not planning on bringing anyone back to the cottage. Either we hook up around here or back at their room or even the beach—”

“Please,” Holster said. “Don’t get arrested for beach sex. I'm pretty sure it's illegal since it counts as a public place and public indecency. Wait.” Holster leaned in so he could whisper: “Is public sex legal in Canada?”

“ _No_!” 

“Here, too! Here it’s illegal, I mean.”

“I wasn’t going to fuck someone in public,” Ransom said.

“I didn’t think you were!”

"The beach is real romantic at night. For _walking_ and _talking_ and all the shit before a hookup."

"Yeah, I got that," Holster snapped.

“I’m just saying that if I do meet someone, I’m not going to bring them back to the cottage.”

“Okay! I will also not bring anyone back to the cottage!”

They stared at each other for a long moment before Holster broke the silence.

“Is it weird calling it a cottage? I mean, the listing said cottage, but it’s like, the size of my mom’s house in Buffalo. Like, that’s a big ass house. We could fit our entire families in that house. We could fit _the team_ in that house. Should we just call it the house?”

“But it’s not the Haus,” Ransom said.

“Good point. Homophones are bullshit.”

“And it’s a cottage.”

“It is.”

“From the outside it’s cute and tiny like a cottage. Your mom’s house is like, in the suburbs, surrounded by other houses. It doesn’t capture that cottage vibe.”

“There’s a cottage vibe?”

“Yeah, isn’t that what you wanted?”

“I wanted a place without bedbugs where I could see the ocean from our windows. Everything else was kind of a bonus.”

“You aimed for _no bedbugs_ and you found the most perfect fucking cottage I’ve ever seen in my fucking life.”

“What can I say,” Holster said. “I’m amazing at literally everything I do.”

“Cheers to that—fuck, I wasn’t kidding, I do need another drink.”

“Good, me too. I’m gonna get that sour green apple Bacardi thing and then we can go on rides until we barf green everywhere.”

“That’s disgusting,” said Ransom. “Let’s do it.”

*

Like the mature adults they were, Holster and Ransom decided to mark which turn in the gravel path between cottages was theirs by buying an inflatable pizza float at the supermarket and tying it to the white picket fence surrounding their cottage.

They had done that hours and hours before, when they were bright-eyed and sober, but after an evening of drinks, flirting with strangers, and making the long walk back to the cottage at 3 AM? It was a baffling fucking decision.

“We tied a pizza to the cottage,” Ransom said.

“I found a cottage with a white picket fence?” Holster asked. “How gay am I? Did they see me coming from a mile away?”

“Don’t erase your bisexuality. You’re like a beautiful blonde humpback whale, singing your bisexual song into the ocean for all the other whales to come find you.”

“Are there bisexual whales? And why can’t I open this fence? This fucking tiny barely past my knees fucking _white picket fence_?”

“What if we just untie the pizza and take it to the beach and then sleep on the beach?” Ransom asked. “Isn’t that a good idea? And we can snapchat the moon for the group chat.”

“Oh my god,” Holster whispered. He turned away from the picket fence and started walking down the path back to the beach. “Bring the pizza! We can snapchat the moon!”

“We can read the social behavior of female whales as biromantic!” Ransom called after him. “Adam wait I have whale facts.”

*

“Gentlemen. Excuse me. Gentlemen.”

Holster woke up first and sat up, squinting through his glasses, to greet a cop-like person glaring down at him from an ATV. 

“Uh, hi,” Holster said. “Sorry, must’ve nodded off there.”

“You can’t sleep on the beach.”

“Our cottage is right up there,” Holster said, pointing vaguely. “We, uh. We came out for an early swim and I guess time got away from us.”

Beach Security (BEACH SECURITY????) didn’t believe him, but must have taken pity on Ransom, who was still asleep. 

“Just keep in mind this is a family beach, son,” said Beach Security. 

“Okay?” 

“A _family_ beach.”

In the back of his brain, the coded homophobia clicked and woke Holster right the fuck up. 

“Of course, sir,” Holster said. “We just drove down after the end of school, you know? And we’re staying right over—”

“None of my business, son, just keep what you’re doing indoors.” Beach Security Asshole didn’t wait for an answer, just rode away into the morning. 

Holster looked down at Rans, still perfectly dead to the world, and looked out at the ocean again. They were still in yesterday’s clothes and he felt his calves and shins starting to burn in the strong early sun. Poor Rans, though, cuddling that pizza float, his awful salmon shorts rumpled enough in his sleep to let in a whole lot of sand and reveal a scandalous strip of dark skin, just for Myrtle Beach and the beach police. (The beach police! Was this a _thing_?!)

Holster took out his phone and provided the group chat with photos of the two of them cuddling their new friend, the pizza float. 

He lingered another moment, just watching Rans, before he woke him up to get him inside. 

“Come on, I’m lobstering up out here,” Holster said.

“Shit, did we sleep outside all night?” Ransom asked. His face was still pressed against the pizza float, hoping to block out the sun. It was ineffective. “Did we miss the sunrise?”

Holster stood up and started walking back to the cottage. “Catch it on my calves. They red enough for you?”

He didn’t wait for Ransom.

*

After a heavy, _heavy_ brunch at the house and catching up on the rest of their sleep, they decided to head to the beach itself and experience that whole ocean thing people were so crazy about. 

“Remember when we were frogs and took swimming that one term?” Ransom asked. 

“Why did we _do that_?” Holster laughed. “We didn’t need the PE credit.”

“Uhhhh, do you not remember your undying love on the men’s swim captain that year?”

“Dude no way.”

“Dude _way_. You gave me _so_ much shit trying to get me to take that class. Blah blah blah cardio, blah blah strength training—”

“No,” Holster whined. “I’d blocked this all out. Stop, help, I’m dying.”

“ _Hey Paul, looks like I made it after all_ , said baby frog Holster. You were _unbelievable_.”

Holster dug their giant umbrella rental into the sand and unfolded his beach chair with a bit more force than strictly necessary.

“Speaking of hugely embarrassing frog years,” Holster said. “I seem to remember someone strong-arming me into taking a chemistry class with them so they could impress the girl they were trying to date by explaining science to me.”

“You _needed_ to take that class,” Ransom said. “You needed the science credit! Math classes aren’t science! Tell me my tutoring wasn’t _extremely_ helpful.”

“Oh, I’m not saying it wasn’t,” Holster said. “And believe it or not, I still remember some shit from that class, but oh my _god_. _Kimberly! Girl, please, it’s a piece of cake, just explaining to my boy Hols here—you wanna catch up later and review?_ ” 

“Man, whatever happened to Kimberly?” Ransom asked.

“She aced the midterm and tested out," Holster replied. “She never needed the reviewing, _Justin_.” 

Once their camp was set up and their skin covered in sunblock, they headed out into the ocean, sunglasses on and ready to rock with the waves.

“Why haven’t there been more Kimberlys?” Ransom asked as they were chest high in the water. “And more Pauls?”

“There’ve been tons of Kimberlys and Pauls,” Holster scoffed.

“Nah, there’ve been _hookups_ but no Kimberlys! Did you get to hook up with Paul?”

“No,” Holster sighed. “But who was that girl I was trying to get with freshman year?”

“How do you not remember the tiny stepping stones on the path to find the love of your life!”

Holster lowered his sunglasses and raised his eyebrows. 

“One day, you’re gonna meet someone,” Ransom said. “Get totally Paul or Kimberly over them—”

“Gina! That was my freshman girl. She transferred to Mount Holyoke, I think. Or Smith.”

“You made that much of an impact on her, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“Anyway,” Ransom said. “You’re gonna get all Paul or Kimberly or Gina over them, and then you’ll have the talk. The ex talk. _Who were you with before me?_ ”

“Dear future partner: do names matter when I get tested every six months?” Holster asked.

A wave crashed into them and almost knocked Ransom over while Holster laughed at him.

“ROMANCE, COTTAGE MAN,” Ransom yelled as he scooped his sunglasses out of the water. “Who were you in _love_ with before them? And then what’ll you say? No one’s gonna believe _baby, there’s been no one but you_.”

“Tough shit, future partner,” Holster said as they waded in deeper. “There’s been no one else. And hey, funny you should talk all this shit and throw all these stones when you’re living in the glass attic with me.”

“Yes but people _believe me_ when I tell the truth,” Ransom said. “You always look like you’re hiding something.”

“Wait, what?!”

Another wave crashed into them and almost knocked them off their feet. At Holster’s nod, they both dove into the water and swam out as far as they dared.

*

Another night out drinking at various clubs and checking out people—

Another night they walked home together to the white picket fence and the inflatable pizza float tied to it, the beacon that led them home. 

Rans wondered if he’d remember in the morning why he was waking up alone in the cottage on his summer vacation with his best bro in the next room, also alone. They’d approached girls and been approached all night, but no matter how many drinks they had, how much they laughed with girls, _women_ their age—no, none of them seemed to catch Holster’s attention for more than a drink or a dance. 

Ransom laughed, laughed a lot, found these girls charming, but by the time they got out to the bars at night, he’d already spent all day laughing. He’d already made Holster double over laughing and choke on a tortilla chip at dinner. 

He reached out and put a hand on Holster’s arm, gripped his bicep tight.

“Hey,” Ransom said.

“Hey?” Holster asked. “Kind of in the middle of climbing our own very low picket fence. Don’t interrupt. Impalement is serious business, dude. Christ, this fence is only knee high, why is it so hard to step over it without ripping my balls off? I WILL FUCK YOU UP, PICKET FENCE.”

“Tomorrow,” Ransom said.

“Yeah?”

“Aquarium.”

Holster’s face lit up.

“Aquarium! Shit! I forgot all about that.”

“I still have the brochure, my dude,” Ransom said. “Tomorrow. Wake up, breakfast, aquarium, lunch, beach.”

Holster, drunk as he was, finally lifted his other leg over the very, very low picket fence, and found himself standing on his own two feet inside the cottage's front yard. Ransom had opened the little gate and let himself in already. 

“Then we go out again,” Holster said. “We go out, get some drinks, dance a little, try our _very best_ to find people to hook up with even a _fraction_ as interesting as any of our friends who we can’t fall in love with.”

“Dude, now that you said it,” Ransom said. “If only Bitty wasn’t our son—I mean, you have shared interests, he makes a killer pie, you both love romcoms, you’re both _really_ into dudes—”

“Rans!” Holster clutched his chest and gasped loudly. “That is our _son_. Our tiny bittiful gay son. There are sacred rules about that sort of thing, ones I’ve just made up and they all say in very large letters: _NO_.”

“Dude I’m just putting it out there,” Ransom said. “Since you said—”

“I won’t mind,” Holster said. “I won’t mind telling my future whoevers that—that no one could compare to my friends, my Haus. Maybe no one ever will.” 

Ransom might not remember all the words said, but he would definitely remember Holster speaking to him very seriously, gripping both of his shoulders, and then turning his head to the side so he could vomit on their pristine cottage rental grass in the middle of the night. 

“Holtzy,” Ransom said as he rubbed Holster’s back. “Record _broken_. You haven’t hurled like this since kebab night at Epikegster 2012.”

Ironically, Ransom forgot everything he didn’t snapchat, which was everything before the vomit.

*

Except the aquarium because the next day, in line at the aquarium:

“So let me get this as straight as I can get anything,” Holster said. “You matched me for drinks all night. We walked home at the same jaunty-casual _schwasted_ pace in the middle of the night, but I end up hurling all over our beautiful cottage’s picket fence and also our dreams.”

“Yes, so far, all accurate,” Ransom said.

“And somehow you still have the fine motor skills _not only_ to find the cottage’s garden hose and hose me down, _but also_ hose down the grass and the picket fence, _but also_ capture all this on video and send it to our friends so I can wake up this morning to Shitty cackling at me on snapchat for like ten snaps.”

“What can I say? I know how to show my friends a good time.”

“ _No you don’t or why did I hurl Rans????_ ”

“Delicate Buffalo constitution, I’m guessing.”

“Shut up, man, we’re about to have an educational experience.”

“Gonna see some motherfuckin’ stingrays and some motherfuckin’ beautiful aquatic creatures,” Ransom sighed. “And we gotta go in the fish tunnel.”

“The what now?”

It was practically mandatory to earn those touri$t dollar$ that an aquarium have an underwater tunnel, a curving tunnel at the base of the largest tank that wrapped through the ecosystem and let fish and sharks and all kinds of shit surround terrified adults and screaming children with the beautiful horrors of the ocean. Ransom already leaned into marine biology—he wouldn’t be at the Haus for most of the summer so he could attend a program up in Maine where he’d work with a team to study the warming waters’ effects on the local ecosystem.

He tried not to think about Holster living alone in the Haus for the first time since they’d moved in their second year. Like, for more than a weekend. Like, for most of the summer. 

They spent a good long time wandering the aquarium. Ransom could spend years in an aquarium in quiet reverie or talking his people’s ears off about what they were looking at, but _Holster_. 

Rans barely got off snapchat, snapping videos of Holster with his face pressed against a tank whispering _ugh GROSS_ at 7/10 things in the smaller tanks around the place, or Holster leaning into shallow pools to touch the stingrays and baby sharks then coming back up again so he could whisper _oh my god it’s so fuckin SLIMY bro I gotta touch it again_. 

They entered one of the darker exhibit rooms and from the corner of his eye, Ransom could see a brighter blue-green glow stretch across the floor. “Dude, fish tunnel.”

“What?” Holster asked. Rans looked over his shoulder and grinned, Holster adjusting his glasses as he rushed after Ransom. 

“Oh,” Holster said. “Fish tunnel. Exactly what it sounds like.”

The tunnel floor was split in half: half moving walkway, half rubber floor for little kids who liked to bounce down the path. Ransom took the walkway all the way down, snapping a smooth as hell video of a shark following him along the glass before it lost interest and left. He stepped off the belt at the end and stepped to the side so he could get 4G and post the video. 

Holster was out of sight, so Rans entered the tunnel again and found him around the curve, just a few feet from where they’d started. 

Something in his chest fucking _clenched_. 

The two of them were tall guys, but two inches on Holster and his pomaded and sculpted white boy hair made all the difference. Holster had his hands in the pockets of his shorts, his face tilted up and almost reaching the curve of the glass, a few inches of glass all that separated him from drowning in a hundred thousand gallons of seawater. A school of brightly colored fish floated over him, the light of the tank catching their colors and reflecting them onto Holster’s face. A shark was coming from the other side and swam over Holster, inches from his face. 

That was when he looked over at Rans and his grin, if possible, got even wider. 

“I get why you love this,” Holster said. “I get it now. Like, really get it, dude.”

Holster took a few steps further into the tunnel, but stopped again to stare into the tank and marvel. That light of the water, all that life, turned Holster’s eyes turquoise and green. Did Holster know he was biting his bottom lip as every animal in the goddamn tank rushed over to see this creature marveling back at them? 

Rans took a pic, took a video, saved them both. 

Holster met him at the curve of the tunnel and laughed at himself, like _he_ was the embarrassing one who couldn’t stop staring at something, a thing real and unreal. 

“You hungry? I could eat. Maybe not fish because I’m _kinda_ in love with them right now, but something?”

“Yeah, I could eat,” Ransom repeated. He stuck his hands in his pockets and followed Holster’s lead. The chill down his back, the shaking in his hands—he was probably just hungry. 

*

They had a late dinner after their epic afternoon at the aquarium. They managed to snag a table outside one of the sandwiches places and loaded up on everything fried and everything sandwich. Their second beers arrived and they both jumped at a crash, an explosion overhead.

“Oh fuck, we finally caught the fireworks!” Ransom said. “Shit, where have they _been_ this whole week?”

“I don’t wanna blaspheme against my fave, our mistress Alcohol, but explosions and pyrotechnics put on a good show,” Holster said. “You mind if we don’t get totally fucked up tonight?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Ransom said. “We’ve had such a pure and wholesome day, let’s see if we can keep it up, eh?”

“Dude, we haven’t played skeeball in like, a whole fucking day,” Holster said. “We finish up here and I’ll win you something pretty.”

“You’ll win _me_ something pretty?” Ransom said. “Maybe I’ll win you something _huge_.”

“Something you can take with you to Maine,” Holster said. 

Ransom tried not to look like his whole entire heart was caught in his throat.

“Something to hang in the attic with you and listen to you bitch about tips at the golf club,” Ransom said.

“You’re on,” Holster laughed, and they shook on it and neither of their hands was weird or sweaty _at all_. 

Their snapchat streaks with the Haus expired. They didn’t need to share the pictures. Bitty and the others could see their winnings when they returned to the Haus: Holster’s modest-sized stuffed purple tiger that would actually fit in the car, and Ransom’s stuffed crab that fit right in his duffel bag for Maine. 

*

They had two days left in Myrtle Beach. 

They got breakfast sandwiches and smoothies from a little shop on the boardwalk and walked back to the cottage, everything half devoured by the time they got there.

They sat side by side on the porch steps like the first day, shoulder to shoulder, phones on silent. Their phones had been on silent since the aquarium. 

“This was good,” Holster said. “This was a good trip. It was good to—to take a trip like this. It’ll be hard to beat, you know?”

Ransom took a long sip of his smoothie and stared at him like he’d lost his goddamn mind. Which, to be fair, hadn’t he?

“We’ll do this again,” Ransom said. “Take trips like this, I mean. This isn’t the—this isn’t it. We’ll see so many places, Holtzy. Just you wait.”

“We just gotta upgrade our game next time.” Holster took a long drink from his smoothie, Christ, his throat was weirdly dry as he said that. “Less romantic Canadian miniseries cottage, more, I don’t know—”

“Say it, say wild sex cottage and mean it, I dare you,” Ransom laughed. “And I thought this was a Nicholas Sparks romance cottage.”

“Shit, we haven't watched _Safe Haven_ while we've been here,” Holster sighed. “Now you’ll never know the big twist at the end!”

“Ghost Robin Sparkles,” Ransom said. “Bitty spoiled it for me.”

“Seriously? I’ll be having a word with our son, just wait until—”

Ransom’s hand was on the nape of Holster’s neck. He moved his hand to Holster’s jaw, his thumb stroking along the jawline. If he pressed a little harder, he could feel Holster’s pulse under his thumb, the beat steady, speeding up.  

“You know I’m really ticklish there.” Holster tried to keep his eyes open, even if all he wanted was to close them and let this fever dream keep happening to him. 

“Yeah, I can see how much you’re laughing,” Ransom said. He lifted both his hands to hold Holster’s face.

“I’m sorry,” Holster said. 

He still hadn’t closed his eyes and _fuck_ it was getting harder every second to breathe through this. 

“Shut up for a second.”

Ransom pulled him in, kissed him, touched the edges of Holster’s jaw so their mouths opened to each other. It was almost completely perfect so Holster pulled away.

“This wasn’t—I just wanted a nice place to stay, I didn’t want to like, abduct you from all women and trap you here until—”

“Yo, wait up, can I get this right? Because it sounds like you think you’re smart enough to _trick me_ into developing a giant crush on you—”

“I could be the smart one,” Holster protested. 

“You took a swim class to talk to a boy.” Rans leaned in and kissed him again. “You took a science class to help _me_ talk to women.” 

“Dude, in my defense, like I said, I did need that science credit—”

“Like _I_ said,” Rans said. “Would you—do you actually want to kiss me?”

“Yes please.”

“And take this inside?”

“Yes please,” Holster repeated. “My room’s been so quiet without your snoring.”

“Without _your_ snoring.” 

Holster knew what they looked like, two giants sitting on the steps, their knees bumping as they both tried to fit on the porch steps. Holster knew what _he_ looked like: his chin and his face tilted up at Ransom’s mercy, waiting for the next kiss because he’d been waiting for so long. 

There was the kiss, and there was Ransom standing up and holding out a hand to him. 

“Just warning you, I have a lot of expectations,” Holster said. He took Ransom’s hand and stood up, Ransom’s hands settling on his hips and already slipping beneath Holster’s shirt. “Like, fine, it’s not pouring rain right now, but one of us is getting pushed up against that door as soon as it closes and gasping like they’re on fire and I’m _just warning you_ —”

It was him. It was totally him. 


	3. Chapter 3

They packed and drove to the edge of town for breakfast to start the first leg of their trip back. Breakfast was a pot of coffee, _all of the breakfast food_ , and Ransom bumping his knees into Holster at every opportunity. 

“That’s how it’s gonna be for the next day and a half?” Holster asked.

Ransom grinned at him and utterly fucking devastated the last remnants of Holster's chill. “That’s how it’s gonna be.”

Holster took the first shift. He had the brief, stupid thought that if he drove stick, he could have an excuse to keep one hand between him and Ransom, Ransom gently gripping his hand that was already there for legit driving reasons and shit. No such luck—he’d never had a reason to learn to drive stick. 

Oh what the _fuck_ what kind of a fucking excuse was that?! Holster sighed under his breath. He reached for Ransom's hand, squeezed it for a moment before his hand returned to the wheel. 

Ransom made up for Holster’s shortcomings by putting an arm around the back of Holster’s seat, turning his body to talk to him for a good dozen exits or so. It was something.

“Hey,” Ransom said. “Remember that time in Myrtle Beach?”

Holster grinned to himself and kept his eyes on the road.

“What time? There were lots of times in Myrtle Beach. Lots and lots of times. Like, by the end there, we kinda had good times all over the place, pal.”

“That time with the pizza float.”

Holster choked on his own laughter, while Ransom laughed and leaned against his open window. The wind whipped through the car and Holster didn’t mind, didn’t want to hear anything but this quiet fullness between them. 

*

They pulled over at a rest stop aroundish Richmond. They refilled their water bottles and grabbed a greasy lunch and cold bottled coffee drinks. In the parking lot, Ransom jumped onto the trunk of Holster's car and jumped right off again when it buckled under him. He walked it off, laughing with his hands up and his plastic bags hanging off his wrist. “All right, all right, so your car can’t handle me on the trunk, never mind both of us, _fine_.” 

He followed Holster to one of the wooden picnic tables outside the rest stop restaurant conglomerate and they laid both their bags out to exchange lunch, snacks, and drinks. 

“Jesus, Philly’s only four hours away,” Holster said as he counted six Starbucks cold drinks between them. “Like, we’re not going to run into a war on the way there, are we? And we have to stop again in New Jersey because rest stops aren’t exactly plentiful in Connecticut.”

“God, fucking Connecticut,” Ransom sighed. “Not the fuck again.”

“We’ll stop to eat in Connecticut, promise,” Holster said. “I know, I want to get through that deserted wasteland as quickly as possible, but it breaks up the monotony if we stop.”

“It’s just… it’s just so _boring_.”

“I know, babe, I know.”

Holster caught himself and froze, and it was only Holster’s total sudden stillness that tipped Ransom off, like, _oh, babe, that’s new, but it isn’t, but it is_. 

“Was that weird?” Ransom asked. 

“I don’t know,” Holster said. “Did you—was it weird for you?”

“I didn’t notice. You—we always say shit to each other, don’t we? Doesn’t have to change. Shit like affectionate shit, not like, negative shit.”

“I got that.”

Ransom bumped his knee against Holster’s again and Holster bumped back. They drank their iced coffees and ate their lunches. Their fingers brushed as they stole fries and the occasional nugget from each other. Ransom noticed Holster didn’t lift his eyes as all this was happening; he smiled down at the table and caught Ransom’s fingers as he went in for a fry. 

“What would Jack say?” Holster asked.

“Huh?”

“If he knew we were compromising our protein intake to be cute and shit.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Ransom laughed. “That’s why there’s no one out in the NHL. Performance would suffer because it’d be _too_ adorable if teammates dated each other.” 

“Don’t get checked too much this year,” Holster said. “I won’t be able to choose, y’know, between rushing to your side or beating the living shit out of the asshole who did it to you.”

“What? You _haven’t_ been living and dying over this dilemma for the past three years? Holtzy, come on. I thought we had something.”

Holster laughed, but still didn’t meet Ransom’s eyes. Ransom thought: if only he could lean across the table, tip up Holster’s chin, kiss him, _make him_ look at him. If only he could be sure that it’d be okay with every potentially hateful person swarming around them in the middle of the afternoon at this rest stop. If only he could be sure that it’d be okay with Holster. 

*

They passed through through D.C. without stopping and entered Maryland, where they’d spend 60 miles before entering Delaware. Holster thought they should bypass Philly entirely this time and stop somewhere off the Jersey turnpike because, seriously, there was no goddamn reason to even look at Pennsylvania on a good day. Today was good, but it could be _great_ if they reached the Haus and slept in their own beds tonight.

“Shit,” Holster said. “We have bunk beds.”

“Oh, fuck,” Ransom said. “We have _bunk beds_.”

Ransom didn’t slow down, but their conversation did. Holster adjusted his seat and pushed it back, stretching out his legs and reclining the seat back because _fuck, they had bunk beds_. 

“We didn’t think this through,” Holster said.

“Think what through?”

Holster’s every thought dried up in his brain and never made it to his throat. 

“I dunno. Just. Everything.”

“Everything what?”

“Where are we gonna _fuck_ , Rans? We have _bunk beds_. Like. Oh, thanks for the _several_ orgasms, I’ll just lie here while you retreat upstairs to your bunk.”

“So, what, you think we should get a bed?”

Holster shoved a fistful of Doritos into his mouth, a massive fistful that crumbled into dust on his t-shirt and really fucking hurt the inside of his mouth because christ, those fucking Doritos and their sharp fucking edges, _fuck_. 

“We could get a bed,” he finally said. “I’ll look on craigslist. That’s how I found our dressers back when we moved into the attic. Total steal. People in Massachusetts are always cleaning out their Puritan ancestors’ furniture warehouses and giving great shit away for nothing. Their beds have lasted like two hundred years—let’s see if one survives a year in a frathouse.” 

“Sounds like a plan,” Ransom said. “You’re good at planning, Holtz. I trust you.”

Holster took a deep breath, let it out, and crammed another fistful of Doritos into his mouth. 

*

They stopped somewhere in New Jersey and sat outside another rest stop at another picnic table with Red Bull and more snacks. They were both looking at their phones before getting back into the car. Their next leg would take them through the rest of New Jersey, briefly through New York, and right into Hartford for a quick stop to stretch. After that, Rans would have the home stretch, an hour from Hartford right to the Haus.

As they stood around and stretched at the rest stop, there was something else on Ransom’s mind, something a bit more pressing than where they’d fuck once they were back in the Haus—not because fucking was less important, but this was more immediate. 

“When do you start up again at the golf club? Do you know your hours yet?” Ransom asked. 

“Haha, I start Monday,” Holster said. “Like, two days from now, 7 AM. Why do you ask?”

Ransom groaned and rubbed at his face. “Really? You start that soon? No break in between?”

“Dude, Myrtle Beach _was_ my break,” Holster said. “This is my break right now.”

“Oh, shit. Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. This was a good break. I relaxed a ton. You know I get jumpy as fuck if I’m not like, doing something.”

“I’ve watched you lie on the couch with Bitty and watch literally ten hours of Harry Potter movies,” Ransom said.

“Yeah. I was _watching Harry Potter_. That’s active engagement, motherfucker.”

Ransom laughed. “I’ll never understand you.”

“Me either,” Holster said. “Why’d you ask about work, though?”

“I... “ Ransom looked off at a distant point over Holster’s shoulder. Holster, his actual golden retriever of a boy, turned to look over his shoulder and make sure there wasn’t something there. 

“My program starts next weekend,” Ransom said. “So I need to get to the airport for my flight to Maine on Friday.”

Holster laughed and ducked his head, rubbing at the nape of his neck. “See, this is what happens when you date your roommate! That’s like, year into the relationship shit.”

And man, it wouldn’t have bothered Ransom if it wasn’t so true, and if Holster hadn’t said it.

“I figured you were working,” Ransom said. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll get a cab.”

“Shuttle to the train is free—shit, shuttle’s only running half-time, if that, because it’s summer. Dude, don’t worry, I’m just—of course I’ll take you to the airport.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it, I’ll take a cab. I only asked because I thought you’d be free, that you wouldn’t start at the club until the week after.”

Their eyes met suddenly and Holster looked away first.

“Is that… do you want me to do that? To take the week off until you leave and like. Be with you?”

Ransom licked his lips and shook his head. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ll entertain myself without you, _somehow_. And I have shit to take care of before I leave.”

“Right,” Holster said. 

They sat at the table for a moment longer, then Holster began picking up his trash and Ransom followed his lead.

*

“How’s the group text?” Holster asked in the first interminable half of Connecticut. “They saved us last time we were in this godforsaken state.”

“Shit, I’ve barely looked since this morning,” Ransom said. “Uh, let’s see. Shitty’s at his fourth graduation party of the week and he just spotted the Winklevii.”

“Like, the real Winklevii? Not the guy from the movie? Damn, Shitty.”

“Bits started a separate group text for us and Lardo and the frogs, without Jack and Shitty. It makes sense, you know, keeping it all between us and Lardo and Jack and Shitty.”

“Right,” Holster said. “What should we rename our new grownup future grad group text?”

“Lardo already asked and Jack respectfully asked we not because he can’t keep track, poor popular NHL baby. And one of the frogs in the new text has an Android so we can’t rename the text with the new team.”

“Things are looking bleak for our heroes,” Holster said. 

Ransom rested a hand on Holster’s shoulder and squeezed, trying to be warm and comforting about it. Holster smiled and kept his hands on the wheel, his eyes on the road. 

*

They made great time and arrived at the Haus in the middle of the night. Bitty wasn’t due back until late July, Lardo wouldn’t come back until their practices started again, and Chowder hadn’t dared text either of them yet about when he’d be moving into Jack’s old room. 

“Jesus, take me now,” Ransom said as he threw his bag down in the hallway and started his way up the stairs. 

“Ugh, I’m really tired, but maybe in the morning?”

Ransom almost tripped on the steps because it was a joke, he was speaking to literal nonexistent Jesus, not—not asking Holster to climb all over him _now_ , when they’d been stuck in a car all day—not that he’d say no—but maybe he would?? _Because he was tired????_

“I’m gonna take a shower,” Ransom said. He flicked the light on in the bathroom and closed the door behind him before Holster could—whatever. He was tired. He wanted a shower. 

Holster was still awake when he went up to the attic, flipping through shit on his phone, and glanced at Ransom when he came in. 

“You okay?” Ransom asked as he dug somewhere for a pair of briefs. "You look worried, bro. It's okay, we made it out of the car. Car can't touch you ever again... until Monday when you have to go to work."

“Tomorrow,” Holster said. “Tonight we’ll sleep for a million hours and tomorrow we’ll wake up and we’ll be like. Totally into this thing. Into. You know. This thing.”

This thing?

“Sounds like a plan,” Ransom said. “Shower’s all yours.”

“Ugh, amazing, I gotta get this Roy Roger’s stank off me.”

Holster put his phone down and sprinted out, leaving Ransom alone. In another moment, the boards creaked behind him; it was Holster again, backtracking in a rush to take Ransom gently by the arm and turn him around.

Holster kissed him, a light, random, trying little thing.

“Tomorrow.”

Ransom nodded. “Tomorrow.”

*

The next day, Rans woke up to Holster in his face and Rans screamed.

“What?!”

“Jesus, you’re on my ladder. Fuck, I almost died.” Ransom turned onto his back and rubbed his hands down his face. 

“You know, if we had the same bed, you’d have to look at this face every fucking morning, dude.”

“Yeah, but I’d be _expecting it_ in the same bed a foot off the ground; when I’m in my bunk bed eight feet off the ground, I’m expecting to wake up looking at _no one_.”

“Well, you got your levitating Holtzy instead, sorry, fucker,” Holster said. “Anyway. Get up. It’s my one free day before you leave me for six weeks. We gotta make the most of it.”

“And what’s the most of it?”

Holster shoved a partially unwrapped granola bar into Ransom’s face. “Pre-breakfast. Run. Long run where we adorably bump into each other a lot cuz we like each other. Shower. Murder Stop & Shop. Big breakfast. Nap adorably? Bed stuff? Another meal?? I didn’t think this through—”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Ransom was already eating the granola bar because hell, free delivery and it was his favorite. 

“I just want some exercise and a giant breakfast sandwich covered in sriracha and then I want to make up for shit being weird since, uh. Since we left the place.”

Ransom looked at him and reached over to touch Holster’s cheek.

“Why don’t you ever look at me when you’re talking about this?” 

Holster was sure as fuck looking at Ransom now, both his eyes startled wide open behind his glasses. 

“Talking about what? About—about us?”

“Yeah, you never look me in the eyes,” Ransom said. “We had good excuses before—one of us always driving for about 18 hours straight, that’s a pretty good excuse—but even when we stopped, or even when we’re here and talking about this shit. I dunno. You don’t look at me.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll… stop?” Holster shook his head and waved a hand. “I’ll stop being weird, I’ll start looking at your face.”

“Dude, I said you weren’t making eye contact, but you haven’t been looking at me _at all_?”

“I’m adjusting,” Holster said. “How is this so easy for you? You just—flip a switch and suddenly you’re okay with sex with men, you’re okay with banging your roommate and your best friend, and it’s like nothing. How is that nothing for you?” Holster pursed his lips together and looked around. “The ladder to your bed is a weird place to be having this conversation. Why don’t you think this is a weird place to be having this conversation?!”

Holster looked, to Ransom’s eyes, really and truly desperate. Not in like, a sad way—wait, yes, in a sad way, but not in a—he didn’t like to think of Holster as desperate, because Holster was anything but. They were each other’s rocks since they met, for fuck’s sake, and it felt like a part of Ransom was being slowly chiseled and carved out the longer he looked at Holster pleading with him. 

“I know what I want,” Ransom said. “It’s—I don’t know. It’s never been a big deal for me to want something and then do stuff to get it. I usually do. I don’t see anything wrong with that.”

“Okay,” Holster said. “Well, I don’t. I mean. It hasn’t been that easy for me. For anyone. For anything.”

“Okay,” Ransom said. “Well, if you needed to hear it—if literally sucking your dick at our sweet little vacation cottage wasn’t proof enough—I want you. So let me climb out of bed and put on some shit and we’ll go for a run, okay?”

“Okay.” 

“I’m going shirtless if that helps persuade you. #TeamRansom.”

Ransom climbed down and Holster was looking at him now, finally, but with a dog’s head tilt and raised eyebrows.

“Did you just… hashtag your half of the relationship?”

“Yes,” Ransom said. “Unless we’re #TeamRanSter.”

“The fuck? Why do you get to keep your name first?”

“Dibs on my name.”

“IF WE KEEP MINE WE’RE HOLSOM. It’s a homophone.”

Ransom almost dropped the shorts he was holding. “Bro, that’s beautiful.”

“Bro, _right_?”

The thought crossed both their faces: _the group chat_. They stared at each other for a long moment, but neither of them went for their phones. Ransom turned away to rummage for a running shirt and Holster muttered something about finding his sneakers downstairs, and then off they went. 

*

That afternoon, they got back in the car for an epic trip to Murder Stop & Shop. They came back, put the food away, and fell asleep twenty minutes into _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone_. 

Holster woke up around sunset to the tv’s blue screen after the blu-ray player shut itself off. His cheek was against Ransom’s stomach, his arm stretched out and dead all along the length of Ransom’s back. He closed his eyes and pressed his cheek against Ransom, letting himself feel the warmth beneath him, Ransom’s slow breathing. Did this count? Did this count as part of their new thing? 

He left the couch, trying not to disturb Ransom. Fuck, his shoulder was killing him.

*

They had four days that week where Holster would wake up at 6, shower, get dressed in his golf club uniform, climb up to kiss Ransom good morning and goodbye, then drive 45 minutes to the club out in the _suburb_ suburbs for a full day of work that would get him back to the Haus at 7 that night. 

Ransom spent those days unpacking Myrtle Beach, repacking for Maine, reading up on everything for his summer program, and hanging out on the program’s secret Facebook group so they could all know each other already when they arrived on Friday. 

His roommate for six weeks was Ted, who was drinking a PBR in his profile picture and wanted his double major to lead into a career in astrobiology for NASA. It made sense—the ocean was freaky as hell and a perfect segue to the freakiness of space. 

Ransom pulled up the member list, all 25 people who would shack up in Maine together for the next six weeks, and looked them all over. Here was a brand new pool of people: most of them his own age, all in college programs like his, most of them interesting, most of them good-looking, even Ted, with his overgrown Mumford and Beard look that wouldn’t look out of place at the Haus during playoffs.

Yeah, it’d be cheating to hook up with any of these people over the summer, but should it be? Was exclusivity going to be a _thing_ with him and Holster, when they’d just started hooking up?

Not that Ransom didn’t want to be with him anymore—not that any of these people looked more than surface attractive and surface interesting based on some Facebook posts and their new group text, but Ransom knew himself. Hadn’t he just told Holster, about him and wanting? _I know what I want, and I get what I want_. It worked to get Holster; would it work to keep him? Wasn’t it better to say something now, and keep Holster close, and if something happened with someone in the program it wouldn’t be cheating? It would just be a blip or something, and then Ransom would come back and they’d have a whole year in the Haus together before—before everything to come.

“Oh my god, did Jack leave us his grill? Did you _grill_ shit in the backyard?!” Holster asked when he arrived that night. “You beautiful motherfucker. Ugh, thank you.”

These past few days, Holster would come in and find Ransom, kiss him hello, comment on food, run upstairs to shower, and then rush back down to the kitchen so he could press against Ransom’s back and make unhelpful comments about anything and everything. 

Ah, fuck, this was gonna be bad. 

“Hey, look at my laptop,” Ransom said So Casually as he worked on making a goddamn pilaf taste like something. “My Maine program has a Facebook group and I pulled up the list of all the geeks competing with you for my attention the rest of the summer.”

Ransom glanced over his shoulder to see Holster standing in front of the laptop, chewing on a granola bar he had plucked from somewhere. Holster nodded thoughtfully and looked at Rans. 

“Yeah, I can take them,” he said. “Every single one.”

“Thanks, bro, just what I wanted to hear.”

“I bet none of them have your snapscore,” Holster said. “They look like whatever, like every other science crew at Samwell—maybe _slightly_ more diverse for a pool of only 25, which is impressive.”

Ransom was about to open his mouth and ask the question he, suddenly, didn’t even feel like asking, but Holster beat him to it. 

“It’s okay if you hook up with any of them,” Holster said. “Not that—not that you need or want _permission_ , and not that I don’t—dude, you know this is awesome, what we have—it’s just. Bro. Six _weeks_. Six weeks, your last summer of freedom, eating all the lobster rolls Maine can shake at you? Like, come on.”

“Right,” Ransom said. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

“So go for it while you’re up there, you know? Just. Live it up.”

There it was again, that feeling like his whole entire heart was trying to climb into his throat, using its gross bloody arterial hands to climb up his esophagus and find a way out of his body. Real fucking appetizing as he stared at the various parts of their dinner on the stove in front of him. 

“Okay,” Ransom said. “I mean, we’ve all been shooting the shit on Facebook the past few days and it’s been like, whatever. Everyone’s still either up their own asses showing off how much they’ve done to be there _or_ pretending they’re too cool to be there, so. I guess we’ll see.”

“Yeah, guess so,” Holster said. “I’ll grab plates—we eating on the back porch?”

“Yeah, that’d be great,” Ransom said. 

Holster materialized again, dropped a kiss on Ransom’s shoulder. 

“It’s okay, seriously,” Holster said.

Ransom turned his head and met Holster for another kiss. 

“Thanks,” he said. 

“Anything for you, bro.”

Ransom nodded. “Anything.”

*

Ransom spent his last night curled against Holster’s back in the bottom bunk that was just wide enough to fit them both. Holster barely slept because even with the window unit going full blast, they were still in the attic on a warm night. Rans slept like a cozy little rock without the top sheet, but Holster got a whole night of too-warm Ransom along his back and the A/C’s arctic blast along his front. 

“When’s your flight?” Holster mumbled as he tried to turn in this _fucking tiniest of stupid fucking beds_ without jostling Ransom too hard. “When’s your cab? I’m sorry I—I should’ve taken the morning off to take you but shit, mornings at the club, you know how they are—and you’re still asleep. You're still dead to the world.”

This was legit going to kill him. There was no one, _no one_ , _NO ONE_ who meant as much to him on this whole planet as this stupid fucking lump of guy in his bed. It was killing him to play it cool, like he hadn’t thought the world of Rans since they met. It was killing him to take it slow, because they may have been friends for years, but they’d only been dating (or whatever) for a minute. Holster couldn’t bear to think of what would come after—after the summer was over, after senior year was over, after Holster—

_If_ Holster managed to sign with a team. _If_ he had to take Ransom with him back into the closet. Fuck. _Fuck_. 

Maybe it wasn’t worth it. Maybe—maybe when he came back, they could go back to just being Ransom and Holster. 

Maybe it wasn’t worth putting it all out there when something was going to go wrong and drive his best friend away. He could live with a closed heart—he couldn’t live with a missing one, burned out or ripped out of his chest, a hollow where his home should be. 

“I gotta go to work,” Holster whispered. He hoped Ransom wouldn’t wake up just right now because Holtz knew his own face pretty well and he knew he looked what one would delicately call _fucking wrecked_. “I’m gonna take a shower, get dressed, and I’ll come back to wake you up, okay?” He leaned in to kiss Ransom’s forehead and then he left him in bed. 

*

Ransom woke up late, half an hour before his cab was supposed to pick him up for the airport. The bed was cold, Holster’s half _freezing_ from the A/C. Holster had been gone for a while, but he’d texted.

_sorry i missed you, i said bye and everything but you were real deep asleep so i didn’t want to wake you??? i’m sorry??? i have my phone on me so text me ok? have a good flight!!!_

Ransom wondered who he could go to now, when Holster was the one he wanted to talk to about how Holster was breaking his heart. 

_dude sorry i didn’t wake up- cab’s soon. i’ll let you know when i get there. i’ll miss you_.

He sent it before he could take it back. So what if it was stupid? They hadn’t been apart six weeks literally since they met—they always came back early to the Haus after seeing their families, at Christmas and the summer. They _literally_ hadn’t been apart this long since they’d met. It wasn’t unreasonable. Goddammit, he missed him already. 

If he was honest, he’d missed Holster since Myrtle Beach. Maybe he’d come back soon.

His phone lit up with a new text:

_bro i miss you too_


	4. Chapter 4

The day Ransom left for his summer program, Holster went to work at the golf club as usual. Ransom had a long flight to Maine, almost five hours since the place they were studying was closer to Saint John, New Brunswick than to like… the rest of Maine and New England. Holster was finishing up at the club when Ransom texted to say he’d arrived in Maine.

Holster flicked the message open on his phone and saw it wasn’t to the team’s group text, but just to him. He tapped the picture and turned his phone: a rocky beach, orange and blue mixing in the sky, dark water he could almost hear lapping at the shore. 

_Made it bro!!! Ready to science!!!_

Holster shook his head because that was an effective way of dealing with his feelings. 

_fuckin beautiful shit!!! you’re gonna do so good rans_

Holster tucked his phone away and headed to his supervisor’s office to settle up his shit.

Vince looked up when he noticed Holster in the doorway. He seemed sad, like actually sad, to see him go.

“Jesus, already?”

“Yeah, sorry.” Holster adjusted the bag slung around his chest and tried to look around Vince’s office instead of at Vince. He just needed to grab his last check and go. 

“Can’t believe this’ll be the last summer we see you around here, Birkholtz.”

Holster shrugged. 

“I mean, never say never. I could—you know, I could bust a kneecap, fuck up some ligaments, get a puck to the skull—”

Holster looked up just in time to see Vince’s face frozen in horror.

“Buddy,” Vince said. “Come on. Cut yourself a break. Two NHL camps in a summer? They don’t just go around handing that shit out to anyone.”

“Yeah, I know—”

“I’m surprised you wanted to work here at all before heading off to find some fame and glory. NHL don’t front you anything for that shit?”

Holster laughed. “Not for prospect camps, not if I want to play for Samwell in the fall. I’ve been saving and—yeah, every bit helps, you know?”

Vince stood up and came around the desk. He handed over the envelope with Holster’s check, then offered Holster his hand.

“You’re gonna do good, okay?” Vince said. “You and Rans, my summer overachievers, always going extra ten and fifteen yards because that’s all you know.”

Holster thanked him, shook his hand, and walked out. It was happening, Holster thought as he left the employees’ building at the club and towards the parking lot. The weight on his shoulders felt real and solid, felt like more than a few phone calls and vague plans tucked into his email. This NHL prospect thing was happening and—and an incoming call was going to stop Holster from getting to his car. 

Shit, a Boston number. 

“Adam Birkholtz? I hope this is a good time.”

“Yeah, a really good time, actually,” Holster said. “Suspiciously good timing. I literally just got my last paycheck from my summer job. Who are you and where’s your spy drone?”

The woman on the other end of the line laughed. “Adam, I’m Norma Han. I’m a player agent based in Boston. Believe it or not, I’m here with your friend and one of my clients, Jack Zimmermann, who asked me to offer my services to you.”

Holster’s entire world caved in a little bit. 

“Hey Jack,” Holster said lightly. 

“Hi Holtzy,” Jack said, just as lightly. “I hear you’re thinking of going into the league after all.”

“Uh,” Holster said.

“George, one of our GMs in Providence, noticed your name on the embargoed press releases for the Bruins’ and Islanders’ prospect camps coming up,” Jack said. “She wondered why I didn’t tell her that you were looking to sign with a team. Hey, remember that time I signed with the Falcs? Just a few months ago? Pretty sure you were there.”

“Um,” Holster said. “Hey, Jack, can you take me off speakerphone for like a second? And maybe I can explain?”

“Good idea, pal,” Jack said. “Norma, I’m sorry, it won’t take a minute.”

Holster waited for the speakerphone echo to click off. 

“How did you manage to put so much foreboding in a word like pal?” Holster asked.

Jack said nothing.

“Is this one of those things where you won’t talk until I do?”

Apparently so. 

“You know I can’t afford an agent,” Holster said. 

“Rans said you were working at the club this summer,” Jack said. “ _You_ said you were working at the club this summer. You didn’t say you had camps lined up.”

Holster cleared his throat and left the parking lot. He headed back towards the employees’ building and a shady bench under a tree where he could sit and have Jack tear him apart and talk money at him and dad him into committing to his future until Holster cried. 

“Well, I _was_ working at the club,” Holster said, once he had settled on the empty bench. “And I just picked up my last check, but that doesn’t mean I can afford an agent. I’m driving up for the Bruins’ camp on Sunday, thought I’d—”

“Hold on,” Jack said. “You didn’t tell _Ransom_ that you’re up for two prospect camps this summer? George said you also turned down the Flyers.”

“I turned down the Flyers because Philly scares me,” Holster said. “Have you been there, Jack? Did Philly send you to hit me with a sock full of batteries?”

Jack sighed for what felt like six days in Holster’s mind. 

“Let Norma represent you this year, like she did for me last year,” Jack said. “If you sign, she gets a cut and she’s more than fair, I promise. She’s great at what she does. If you don’t end up signing, I’ll cover her fees.”

“Jack, don’t—”

“Let me, Holster.”

“I don’t need a handout, Zimmermann.”

“No, you need some sense knocked into your skull, _Birkholtz_.”

Holster laughed to himself. “Oh man, you sound like mean Captain Jack from me and Rans’s freshman year, when—”

“Would you stop fucking around and talk to me?”

Holster had taken up about five different sitting positions on the bench since he answered the phone and now he took a last, defeated one, sinking into the back of the bench and spreading his legs, the better to slouch and fuck up his back and ruin his body and then he wouldn’t have a chance at the NHL. That’d show them.

“Get Norma back on the line. I’ll talk, all right? I’ll talk.”

*

“Baby, what’s wrong?”

It had happened again. This was the second night in a row that Ransom had zoned out while on the phone with his mother. 

He and Holster were total mama’s boys, they never hid that from each other, and at this point their mothers were practically as close as their sons.

Well, were. He and Holster hadn’t texted or called or snapchat since Rans arrived in Maine. A quick _hey I’m here_ / _oh good you’re there_ exchange when he had arrived and that was that. Holster had barely surfaced in their group chat and there was no way to ask the others if they’d heard from him. 

Not that Ransom had a whole surfeit of time while he was working to sulk about not being texted constantly by his best friend _who texted him constantly_ , but. Fuck that guy. 

“Sorry, I’m just. It’s a lot of work, you know?”

“Don’t you like what you’re doing? I thought you wanted to do this biology program.”

“I do, I do, and it’s great. The people are great, too, the professors and other students. We’re doing great work.”

The program shared three adjacent houses. His roommate, Ted, had stepped out to smoke somewhere in the woods and give him privacy while he caught up with everyone in his life. Maybe Ted did that in the woods, too. He hadn’t thought to ask.

“I’m sorry, I’m fine, I’m just homesick, Ma, you know?”

“Justin, of course you are. You’ve spent all your school summers at the house with your friends, of course you’ll miss—baby, are you crying?”

*

The Bruins’ prospect camp was close enough to Samwell and the Haus that Holster almost texted Jack to ask if it would be so terrible, so out of the ordinary, if he could save some money and commute every day instead of—

Yeah, he could already anticipate Jack’s response: nothing but slow, audible breathing to let Holster know he was disappointed beyond words. Jack would do that when he was trying not to murder Holster in front of witnesses like Norma and the team managers Holster had met since agreeing to let Norma handle his nascent NHL career. 

It was a fleeting thought, gone as soon as Holster had been in the locker room with the other Bruins prospects for about thirty seconds. It was almost a relief to be chirped and gently hassled again after what, six weeks out of the Samwell locker room? A whole _five days_ without Ransom hip checking him as they ruined Bitty’s kitchen trying to feed themselves?

Christ, he was fucking lonely. 

“You Samwell guys play the field a lot, huh?” That was Nick, a young guy playing left wing from Fuckall, Middle Canada, who had the stall next to him.

Holster shrugged. “Don’t know what you mean.”

“Jack Zimmermann came out of Samwell, right? Bunch of teams after him before he settled for the Falcs, and now the same with you—you’re doing _three_ camps this summer? I saw it on the Bruins’ twitter when they put out our stats. Two's about as much as I can take in a year, man.”

“Yeah, well,” Holster said. “Would’ve been only two but the Falcs had a spot in their camp for a D-man open up last minute and I couldn’t go ten minutes without Jack silently judging me on the ice again.” 

Nick laughed and nodded. “Respect, dude, you get all the offers you can. I’ve watched the Bruins since I was a kid. Anything can happen but I don’t wanna be anywhere else, you know?”

Holster nodded and sat with his back against the stall divider. “I get that,” he said. “My boyfriend's a lifelong Bruins guy—I thought he was the only Canadian to have this weird thing for Boston, but I guess not.”

Holster had prepared himself for what was coming, but his heart still sped up. It felt even faster, sounded even louder in the sudden quiet of the changing room. 

“Your boy, you mean?” Nick asked. 

“Thought I said boyfriend,” Holster said. “We’re together.”

It got even quieter. Holster wanted to fuss with his gear, or pull out his phone and call his fourth grade teacher just to catch up, or jump into a sewer and join a hockey team with any teenage mutant ninja creatures he found down there, but he didn’t. He didn’t look away. He glanced around and didn’t crack at the stares he was getting from around the changing room.

Nick, technically the only person he was in conversation with, faltered. Holster watched Nick redo his perfectly solid shoulder pads. His voice cracked a little, too, when he spoke. 

“And they know? Your agent and the GMs and everyone? And you—you think you’re gonna sign with someone even if you’re out?” 

Nick look too scared to be about to fuck him up, so Holster just nodded. That was Jack’s suggestion, really: _don’t laugh and don’t be an asshole, just be honest_. 

Whatever.

“Look, I’m—the way I look at it, I’m too fucking old to mess around with this shit, you know?” Holster didn’t look away but he did crack his knuckles, in a _jeez see I’m practically on Social Security_ way. “I’m gonna be 25 this year and we’ve—we’ve got a thing going. It’s bullshit if anyone thinks I’m gonna sell my partner out for—”

A guy at the end of Holster’s bench spoke up. Emil? He might have been like the ninth Emil he’d met that week, the fifth Emil who was a D-man like himself. 

“More money than any of us have ever seen,” Emil said. 

“Yeah, well,” Holster said. “It’s only a problem here, in the locker room, if we make it a problem, right?”

Ransom should be here. Ransom was the nice one.

Nick said nothing, but he ducked down again to adjust his shin guards for the three hundredth time in the past five minutes. 

The kid at the end, Emil, reached back into his stall and came over to Holster with his phone.

“Got your back,” Emil said. His phone had a picture of him in formal wear, him and another guy, the guy with the beard kissing his cheek while Emil laughed. Oh god, was that from their prom? Was this not-so-tiny-at-all child at his _PROM_ last month? “Lukas and I will make it work, but quiet. We’re used to it, but it would be nice to just—to be like you.”

“Out of the closet, sure, I get that, but don’t aim for this mess.” Holster motioned to himself and rolled his eyes. “If you meet my guy, you’ll see. The shit he’ll talk about me, I swear.”

A few guys around him laughed and Emil did, too, and nodded at him, lingering for a second before he went back to his stall. 

Nick sat up and nudged Holster’s shin guard with his toe.

“Me too,” Nick said. “We’re cool. No sweat.”

Nick might have said something more if they weren’t, well, in the middle of a locker room full of strangers, ready to fight each other and show off who was good enough to be showered in cash and fame and chronic pain for the next few decades. Instead, Nick nudged Holster’s shin guard again and looked back into his stall for the rest of his gear. These baby queers were going to break his fucking heart.

*

Maine at night felt a lot like summer camp. Once they’d all packed up their samples and gear for the day, everyone got together in their houses to eat a quick dinner and meet up again around a small campfire to take a break from being future scientists and doctors trying to save the planet one barely funded grant at a time. 

A week into the program, Ransom was sitting on a log, side-by-side (almost thigh-to-thigh) with Janelle from UVA, who had been telling him about her long-term partners back at school and their plans after they graduated next spring.

“Is it just your mom and sisters you skype most nights?” she asked, friendly but not flirting. Or flirting? Not flirting. Probably not flirting. Ransom’s brain was in too many pieces and in too many places to do much about it if she _was_ flirting. “I thought you had said you were seeing someone, you know, when we were all talking on facebook. You guys had cute nicknames!!”

“Yeah,” Ransom said slowly. “Yeah, I am, but he’s really busy. He’s working his summer job, the one he does every summer we’re at school, at this golf club—awful hours, like real awful, but great tips. And he’s a huge white guy so they treat him well, too.”

“Not you?” she asked.

“Our boss was great, and our coworkers, too, but the customers, you know. They’re unpredictable. I was kinda glad, honestly, to get in here and not have to deal with suspicious looks whenever I showed up somewhere. That’s life here, I guess.”

“That’s shitty about his hours, but thank god for texting, right? Addie and Frank text me _constantly_ because they have office internships this summer, I swear, it takes my whole lunch break just to catch up with what they’ve been talking about all day.”

Ransom laughed. “We have a group text like that! Our hockey team. He’s on it. The team and the group text, I mean. We snapchat constantly.”

Okay, but when would he switch into the past tense, here? They _used_ to text like that. They _used_ to snapchat constantly. Holster _used_ to take a sharpie and paint crying faces on all their bottles of sriracha and text him _WHEN WILL OUR FATHER COME HOME FROM THE WAR_. 

“We went to Myrtle Beach before I came up here,” Ransom said as he took out his phone and pulled up his photos. “This asshole and I drank too much our first night and I woke up on the beach hugging a pizza float.”

“STOP! Oh my god, you’re even wearing salmon shorts. I’M GONNA DIE.” 

“That’s not the funny part!” 

Janelle grinned at him and knocked her knee against his. “It totally is. Did you bring the salmon shorts or is he keeping them warm for you?”

“Of course I brought them,” Ransom said. “I have nothing to hide! Salmon and proud!”

“Hang on, I gotta send this pizza float to Addie and Frank, these are so relationship goals.”

Across the fire, another girl asked: “Are you guys talking about pizza floats? Like, a pool float?”

“Is it okay if they know?” Janelle whispered to Ransom.

Ransom licked his lips and nodded. He pulled up the photo again as Janelle yelled across the fire:

“ _GUYS_ JUSTIN HAS A REALLY HOT BOYFRIEND AND THERE’S A PICTURE OF THEM SNUGGLING A GIANT PIZZA FLOAT ON THE BEACH.”

That same minute Ransom was surrounded by his shrieking nerd cohort, crying and dying over photos of him and his attractive boyfriend who hadn’t actually texted him in a couple of weeks. At least they were supportive of the relationship he may or may not be in? 

The relationship he was done obsessing over, the one that was fine if he was in it, but if he wasn’t, whatever, it was fine, they were chill, they’ll always have the pizza float. (Literally. They'd found a little hook and put it on the wall of the attic before Ransom left.)

“Yo, you’ve got some texts coming in,” said someone over his shoulder with his phone—right, Luis. “Whoever Shitty is, he’s super fucking pissed, dude.”

“That’s just Shitty,” Ransom said as he took his phone back. “Hang on a sec.”

 

**SHITTY:** FUCK YOU ADAM FUCKING BIRKHOLTZ!!!!!!!! 

YOU TALL BLOND HANDSOME MOTHERFUCKER

YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD JUST GET YOUR ASS ON A BUNCH OF NHL TEAMS

FIRST OPENLY BISEXUAL DUDE TO BE AN NHL PROSPECT!!!!!!!!

AND NOT TELL YOUR OLD FUCKING TEAM?????

YOUR BEST FUCKING FRIENDS

YOUR HAUS HUSBANDS???????????

AND RANSOM!!!! RANSOM!!!!!!!! HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN LYING TO US??????

YOU KNEW AND YOU DIDN’T TELL US OUR BUFFALO PRINCE WAS GOING PRO???????? AND QUEER???? AND OUT???? AND PROUD??????

I’VE NEVER BEEN SO FUCKING BETRAYED IN ALL MY GODDAMNED DAYS

DID OUR LOVE OF SPORT, OUR FLOW, OUR ROADIES AND PLAYOFF BEARDS, OUR TUB JUICE, OUR CONSTANT, CONSTANT USE OF MEDICINAL HERBS, DID THEY MEAN NOTHING

 

A voice over Ransom’s shoulder startled him out of Shitty’s tirade. 

“Bro, does any of that make sense to you?” asked Penny as she read over Ransom’s shoulder. “What’s flow? Like… your team… feeling…? Is it a sports thing?”

“More importantly,” asked Maggie, hovering over Ransom’s other shoulder. “Do you have a recipe for tub juice? I’m assuming it’s a frat cocktail that exists by the gallon. It sounds terrifying and I want some.”

“Back up: is your guy really the first openly bi dude in the NHL?” Luis asked. “Like, _the first_? That can’t be right, can it? I don’t keep up with this shit but like. Seriously? The first? How is that possible?”

“He’s just a prospect, he hasn’t signed yet,” Ransom said. The answer came out automatic while the rest of him silently screamed. 

Ransom excused himself and left the campfire so he could hold his phone in his shaking hands and try to remember how to breathe. A coral reef. He was a coral reef. This was a lot of _fucking trash_ to dump in a coral reef all at once, _Holster_.

 

**JACK:** Sorry, team. Holtz wanted to keep it quiet until it went public. I told him it was for the best.

His agent’s working on some offers.

He might be the first openly bi player in the league, but he’s not in the league yet.

**SHITTY:** WITH THE BRUINS AND THE ISLANDERS AND THE FALCS???

HE HAS AN AGENT????????????

YOU ADOPTED OUR ANGELIC BABY BOY AND HIS LITTLE TINY GLASSES WITHOUT TELLING ME?????????????????

RANSOM WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU!!!!!!!!!!!! 

**RANSOM:** here sorry

i didn’t know

congrats bro

 

Ransom went for a walk on the beach while the sun set around him, like the shitty ill-timed omen it totally fucking wasn’t because omens were bullshit. 

He called Holster. Twice. Holster didn’t answer.

*

The day the embargo was lifted from the Islanders’ press release about that year’s prospect camp, Holster had been asleep for a day and a half. The Bruins’ camp had ended that Friday and Holster had drank with the kids like they weren’t _kids_ and like he himself wasn’t an ancient decaying corpse of nearly 25 years of age. The next morning, he took his stuff, drove back to the Haus, and slept through about 100 phone calls and more texts and emails and voicemails than he would ever read.

On Sunday, Holster grabbed his phone and listened to his younger (middle) sister’s fifth voicemail. 

“Oh,” he said to himself as he burrowed further into his sheets. 

_Look forget all the other messages, okay, we just want to know if you’re coming up to visit like, AT ALL this summer? Are you waiting for Justin to come back from his program to visit? Like, I know you’re busy between Justin’s summer thing with the Maine clams and you APPARENTLY COMING OUT TO THE NHL BEFORE ANY OF US—okay, sorry, sorry, I’m not yelling, okay, I just want to know if—like, what if we drove down to see you? We miss you!! Bethie especially, but I think it’s because she’s 9 and she just REALLY likes Justin a lot more than she likes any of us. Also, I don’t know if you noticed but—bro!!! This is KIND OF A BIG DEAL? We want to support you, okay? Just text me because Mom keeps asking if like, she did something to drive you away and I keep telling her no, you’re just super busy but. Are you? Are you just busy? I’m hanging up now and I’m not telling you I love you because ugh, you’re my brother, that’s just gross. Bye. CALL ME OR I’LL MURDER YOU._

“Hey, Sam,” Holster said. 

“Hey bro,” she said. “You got our messages?”

“Couldn’t miss them.”

“Okay. Good.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call.”

“Yeah, well.”

“I’ve been avoiding everyone. I wanna say it’s because of the news? But I just… didn’t feel like talking. And some Canadian, Russian, and Swedish teenagers gave me a hangover that almost killed me. So… sorry for not calling.”

“Okay,” Sam said. “That’s cool. That’s fine.”

“It’s not, I’m sorry.”

“BRO IT IS SUPER NOT. But I get it, like, my friends have told me about this a bunch of times, about coming out and how it’s a process and—”

“No, it’s not that—okay, maybe it is.”

“Ruth and Bethie miss you tons, and we’ll drive down whenever you want, okay? Or fly. I guess flying might be cheaper if it means Mom doesn’t have to take the whole day—”

“I’ll come up before training starts again, okay?” Holster said. “My last camp ends in mid July so after that’s done, I’ll drive up to be with you guys for a few days before training with the team starts again. Don’t worry about it, I’ll get up there, I promise.”

“Okay,” Sam said. “Did we drive you away, though?”

“You didn’t drive me anywhere,” Holster said. “Promise, Sammy, I promise. And honestly I kinda—I didn’t think I’d ever have to _be_ out. It’s… mostly been women. In the juniors, before I left for school, I didn’t think it’d be a thing. I didn't think I'd—”

“What are you—is this about Justin? Did you come out because of him? Or for him?”

“He knows I’m bi,” Holster said. “Everyone here does, in the Haus. On the team. Definitely everyone at Samwell, I’ve really—”

“Ugh, could you not,” Sam said. “You’re my brother and _uuuggggghhhhhh_ I don’t want to know who you _—_ did I mention _uuuuuuggghhhhhhhhhhhhh_.”

“Real fucking articulate, Samantha. Are you taking AP exams with that mouth?”

“Ugh, shut up! Did you come out _for him_?”

Holster was quiet. He was thankful, too, that this conversation was on the phone and that he was alone in the Haus, in his room, so he could pull the top sheet totally over his head and hide from what was coming next.

“Adam,” Sam said, enunciating his name very, very slowly, each second it took to say his name approximately one million years of how stupid she thought he was. “Does Justin _know_ you came out for him?”

“Look, it wasn’t _for him_ ,” Holster said. “It’s complicated."

"Ew, like that gross movie where Meryl Streep and Jack Nicholson hook up?"

"Meryl and Alec Baldwin!"

"That's way worse, bro."

“You’re driving me away. I feel deeply sad and unloved right now.”

“Okay,” Sam said, speaking very, very slowly. “I’m going to let you go now, and tell Ruth and Bethie and Mom that you’re okay and you’re coming to visit later in the summer.”

“Thanks, Sam.”

“I’m gonna hang up now,” Sam said. “And maybe you’ll call Justin—who we pretty much assumed was your boyfriend anyway, but we didn’t want to pressure you, _Adam_ , and drive away that really nice Canadian guy who you’ve been in love with for like thirty years. And you should drag him along to visit, if—you know, if you're comfortable, if you want to do that now that—I mean, whatever. Bethie wrote his aunties a really sweet email from my account and she _somehow_ got their snickerdoodle recipe out of them. She’s done a good job of fucking them up with my half-assed supervision. He’s _really_ missing out on the family happenings.” She let all that hang for a beat. “You’re both missing out.”

“Thanks for your unique brand of emotional support, you fucking komodo dragon,” Holster replied. “I’ll be sure to pass along our baby sister’s garbage cookies and your threatening well-wishes or whatever the fuck they are.”

“Sounds good, bro!!! Bye!!!”

Holster hung up and hid his phone under the pillow. That was one phone call down, one or a million to go. 

No, just one.

*

Ransom and his science team had just sat down for lunch when Holster called. 

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Ransom said at the phone as it rang. He grabbed his boxed lunch and his phone and stomped off towards the shore where there were fewer people. _Then_ he answered.

“Hey,” Holster said slowly. “I’m here to eat shit.”

“That’s a shame,” Ransom said. “Is the club kitchen not handing off leftovers anymore?”

“That’s just mean, like you’re too good for club leftovers now.”

“YOU DIDN’T TELL ME YOU WERE TRYING OUT FOR THE NHL.”

“Okay, fair, but also fair? I didn’t tell anyone. Like, I didn’t even tell my mom or Sammy and Ruth. Beth’s nine, she’s not allowed to keep secrets until college.”

“What the fuck?” Ransom asked. “You didn’t tell your family? What the fuck, man?”

“For this reason! For exactly this reason! Everyone would _freak out_ —”

“It’s a big fucking deal!”

“No, okay, look, they’d freak out like how Jack freaked out, and you know how Jack freaks out? He flies, probably, to Boston, and hassles his own agent, _Jack Zimmermann’s own agent_ , into taking me on, like I can afford that.” 

“Oh, poor fucking Holster, cry harder, _too many people care about you_.”

“Shut up, man, I’m trying to—look, I didn’t tell my mom because once she found out I had to pay my way through these fucking camps, she’d drive herself nuts working even more overtime so she could send me money. And if I had told Jack earlier, he’d do something even crazier like come to Boston and take me out for six meals a day and just happen to find new skates in the Falcs’ locker room that were just my size. If I told you—”

“Yeah,” Ransom said. “What would I have done, if you'd actually been honest with me?”

“You’d… I dunno… you’d be way too proud of me and then I’d have to look at your face every day after I didn’t make any teams.”

Ransom let out a deep, deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“And I really—remember how you just like, flicked that switch and realized, oh, Holster’s pretty cool, we should be together now, like _together_ together, like _romantic_ together and _banging_ together—I’ve been there, Rans. I couldn’t deal if we did this and then it fell apart, okay? So I’m sorry, and there. I’ve eaten shit. Please don’t hate me.”

"It's so bizarre to me," Ransom said. "How could I _ever_ think less of you?"

"No, look, it's just—"

"No, _you_ look."

"Uh."

"We work together so well," Ransom said. "We get along _so well_ because we know each other's boundaries and space as well as we know ourselves. Please, don't go all bumbling boyfriend on me now, as if we're not the same we've always been, all right? If you want out, _say so_. Don't stay just to save my feelings or whatever. If you want out—"

"I don't," Holster said. "I did when I thought I'd go into the league and back into the closet, but that's not a thing now."

"I'm with you because you're _you_ ," Ransom said. "Maybe in all the years of my life you're not the only guy I ever date, or maybe you _are_ the only guy I ever date, but right now, _I'm with you_."

"Okay, I'm with you," Holster said. "I'm with you, too."

"Seriously, bro: how could I _ever_ think less of you?"

“Bro, come on, it’s not even noon—”

“It’s 1:30."

“Bro, come on, I haven’t been awake for an hour, you’re gonna make me cry.”

“RECEIPTS, SIR,” Ransom said, and he couldn’t help but smile at Holster’s weird choke-laugh. 

“Check your texts,” Holster said. “There’s some receipts waiting for you.”

“In a minute. What comes next?” Ransom asked.

“Uh, I have… two more camps. Islanders start the week after this one, then I have a week off, then the Falcs’ camp. Then I have _three weeks off_ and then we start our training here.”

“Text me dates, all right? It sounds like you finish up in Providence the same week I’m done up here.”

“Wait, really? Shit, it’s _only_ six weeks—okay, six weeks seems a lot shorter now that we’re like, three weeks into it, you know? And had our whole lives turned upside down?”

“That it does. It’s flown by up here, working and watching through the entire series of _Gilmore Girls_.”

“Wait, _what_?”

“We don’t have actual TV up here, or very strong internet, so we’ve been working our way through a set of _Gilmore Girls_ DVDs someone brought. I think we’re watching all of _Star Trek: The Next Generation_ after that.”

“Listen, my friend, my boyfriend, my everything, before you go back to those nerds, _please note_ that every single person on the planet refers to that show as just _TNG_.”

“Wait, really? Does every _Star Trek_ series has an abbreviation? How many shows are there?”

“Oh my god.”

“I’m fucking with you, bro. I saw the Scott Bakula one.”

“THAT’S EVEN WORSE.”

“The point is,” Ransom said. “There’s no direct flights to Toronto; I have to fly to Boston no matter what. Would you be up for another road trip?”

“Oh shit, YES. We’ll drive up to Toronto, visit with your family and then before we visit with mine… _Niagara Falls_ , baby.”

“We can finally get Shitty a dozen of those _Niagara Falls is for lovers_ shirts.”

“One for everyone in the Haus, with #TeamHolSom on the back. I’ll get those cheap iron-on letters or I'll write in sharpie, I don’t give a fuck. We can get one for the pizza float, too. I’m feeling mad emotional! Maybe we can get them in bulk and deliver some to the lax bros, just to fuck with their heads.”

“Hey, I have to get back,” Ransom said. “Text or email me dates, okay? And maybe we can skype tonight, if there's literally not a single cloud in the sky and I stand directly in front of our router.”

“Yeah. Yeah! This camp wore me the hell out so I’m just gonna lie around the Haus until I have to drag myself out for the next one. Rans, what if I just quit now? What if I just quit and took it easy until I died?”

“Do you really want to find out what you can do with an econ degree?”

“...not really,” Holster said. “Okay, professional hockey it is! Wow, can’t wait for this whole year where all we do is freak out about our futures.”

“Don’t remind me,” Ransom said. “I’ve had enough to focus on, between work and _you_ , that I haven’t had time to freak out.”

“It’s cool, it’s cool, we’ll totally lose our shit together when the year starts up again, okay?”

“Can’t wait,” Ransom said. “Talk soon.”

“Love you, bro.”

“Love you, bro.”

*

**RANSOM:** hey everyone come look at these mutated clams i found in a creek filled with local industrial runoff!!!! 

**LARDO:** can i use this for art 

**RANSOM:** sure!!!! it's really sad

**BITTY:** oh rans i’m having lowcountry boil right now

those poor things

i’ll remember them fondly as i eat all this crawfish

**JACK:** Where’s Holster? Why aren’t there 6 texts about how “sick brah” this is?

**RANSOM:** what

no 1) they’re literally sick 2) it’s BRUH not BRAH this isn’t california 

**JACK:** What a bruh-haha I’ve started, eh?

**RANSOM:** i hope a shark fucking eats me right now

**LARDO:** the falconers deserve a refund

**BITTY:** JACK ZIMMERMANN I AM CALLING YOUR MOTHER

**SHITTY:** bad bob’s gonna make you wear that stanley cup COMO SOMBRERO 

**JACK:** Bittle did you tweet that

That’s a good tweet

*

**HOLSTER:** hey uh lol surprise i bought a bed 

it’s an investment ok!!!!!!

$400 for a queen sized bed that fits in the attic with minimal interruption to our desk setup and it’s solid as fuck bc like 10 puritans died hewing it from the land 

MASS. PEOPLE ARE IDIOTS THEY’RE JUST GIVING ANTIQUES AWAY FFS i talked them down from $1K 

KNOCK KNOCK HELLO YES IT’S ME I AM THE BEST OFFER 

**RANSOM:** uhhhh what about the bunk beds

**HOLSTER:** don’t worry about it!!! the lax bros and i have come to a truce and they're gonna help me move shit around!!

**RANSOM:** ok

i’m worried

*

**RANSOM:** fyi i don’t get tv up here so could you all keep an eye/google alert out for the haus in case holtzy kills a lax bro or five that were in the kitchen

**LARDO:** jesus you assholes i was just about to move in 

**SHITTY:** ………………………………………………………………………………….

**HOLSTER:** everything’s fine cancel the google alerts!!!!!!! i chased them out with the hose 

bits what was the pyrex you left on the counter and was it irreplaceable 

cuz you need to replace it

**SHITTY:** we’ve been gone TWO MONTHS

**HOLSTER:** and we’ve been busy!!!!!!!

**SHITTY:** i’m not canceling that google alert 

why were there LAX BROS in our HAUS

**LARDO:** why were there FIVE lax bros in the haus

**JACK:** Can we go back to the heirloom pyrex? Is that a Georgia thing? 

**BITTY:** what on earth

no it’s a MEASURING CUP and if it’s a glass one it’s probably the 2 cup one which is $6 at target

**RANSOM:** how do you know that you tiny wizard 

**BITTY:** i’m a tiny wizard 

who is not at target this very moment comparing mixers 

don’t worry about the cup holster i’ll get a new one while i’m here!!!

**HOLSTER:** i’m sorry i tried to control the bros but there were popped collars EVERYWHERE

**JACK:** Did you pick a color for your mixer yet?

**RANSOM:** ARE YOU GETTING ONE OF THOSE FANCY KITCHENAID SHITS?????? MOTHERFUCKERRRRRRRRR

**HOLSTER:** bits what if your biceps lose definition 

**JACK:** He has a point. Maybe you should stick to the big spoon. 

**HOLSTER:** bitty is a free elf 

**RANSOM:** is that a hogwarts thing

**LARDO:** Yeah tell us about hogwarts some more it's super interesting every time

*

**BITTY:** hello i am back in the haus

i locked my door for the summer and yet i wonder

WHO MOVED A SET OF BUNK BEDS INTO MY BEDROOM

AND TIED A RING OF INDEX CARDS TO THE BEDPOST 

INDEX CARDS WITH THE NAME/NUMBER OF EVERY SAMWELL LACROSSE PLAYER

i know who it was but i want to hear it from you

THE GUILTY ONES

**SHITTY:** what kinda fucking unholy alliance hast ye forged in our absence

JACK DON’T SPEAK DON’T SHAVE I AM DRIVING TO GET YOU WE RIDE AT BRUNCH

**JACK:** Team breakfast today. How about Thursday for our crusade?

**BITTY:** you should come for the weekend :)

and kill holster and ransom :)

both of you :) please :) 

oh good lord cancel the crusade

i can’t even be mad

they fell asleep together on the back porch watching the lucky one

these boys i swear 

**SHITTY:** that movie is so fuckin real 

**JACK:** I’ll come for the weekend anyway.

You can use those phone numbers to expand your social calendar. 

**BITTY:** delete this


End file.
